2

Sitting in the car on the way home, not a word was spoken. None from me and Dad. He was still raving mad, snapping at the passing cars and stepping on the gears.

We drove past a Russian restaurant, where tables and people spilled out the doors onto the sidewalk. There were boisterous noises from the laughing patrons as they plunked down plates of pasta, silver dishes piles with pelmeni and vareniki, on the tables with red checked cloths.

The light turned yellow, and I was amazed that Dad didn't curse as he slowed down at the crossing. A long stream of pedestrians strolled across the road. Next to the crossing was Matryoshka Restaurant.

There was a chunky man in a chef hat and clothes standing outside the Matryoshka. He was jabbering with two other men. One was a beefy Mafia-looking man with a sleek ponytail and the other was immaculately dressed like male soprano. I knew they were Russians because I could hear them speaking in a mixture of English and Russian to each other from there.

These three were using a little kid's plastic baseball bat to demonstrate a move. They pretended to wrestle for possession, laughing and giving each other heaps. The little kid who owned the bat was sitting on a chair giggling at them with his mother.

I smiled as I watched these grown-up men fool around. I'd been feeling so useless and now here I was with a big dopey grin on my face. I turned to check if Dad was watching too. He wasn't.

Then he jerked the car forward and started to drive on. I could see his jaw clench. I felt my smile fade away and slid off my face like a slime.

When we got home, the first thing Mom always did was hugging me. She always came home from work and started her cleaning ritual and cooking. She would turn on really loud music and dance around while she cooked. She would stir and chop in time with the beats and skate from the stove to the sink on her slippery pantyhosed feet.

"Welcome home, big boy and girl!" she said. "How was the..."

Mom saw the looks on our faces and stopped short. She sighed, like all the energy had been drained out of her.

"What's wrong?" she asked, knowing Dad and I must've had another fight.

I couldn't handle listening to them argue about me, so I headed up the hall to my room. Behind me I heard Dad saying to Mom, "I called her bluff at the tryout today. I'm not going to play stupid games with her anymore."

I slammed my bedroom door so hard that the wall shuddered and the chandelier in the living room jiggled.

"Look at that attitude!" Dad bellowed from downstairs.

"Honey, calm down," Mom tried to console him. But Dad began to list down all the bad things about me to her, and when she tried to defend me, he turned on her as well.

A little while later, after they'd finished arguing, Mom knocked on my door and asked to come in.

She sat on the floor where I was with my knees hunched up, and we didn't say anything for a long moment. She used to sit in that exact spot on my floor sometimes and we'd talk about stuff.

"Got any brilliant ideas about how to handle this?" she said at last.

"That's my line," I said. "You're the mother."

"Yeah," she chuckled and nodded, but shaky, like she forgot who she was. "You know your father's got a lot on his plate right now. Problems with work and..."

"Under a lot of pressure," I mumbled sarcastically. "Isn't everyone?"

"Yes, well, you might be sick of hearing it but he is. It's pretty hard for him because..." Mom stopped herself suddenly, trying not to say more than she was supposed to. "You're going to have to put up with him a bit more."

She reached out and squeezed my shoulder. Sometimes when you know a person loves you and wants to help, you can't even look at them or you'll end up blubbering in tears.

Mom left, closing the door gently behind her. I climbed onto my bed and stared at the shelf Dad had made to display my trophies. Some had their baseball figurines on top -tiny, shiny players. Signed pictures of woman leagues and professional teams from the past until now were framed on the walls. They looked so perky, so confident, so sure about what they were doing. I wished I felt like that.

My brain strewed about everything that had happened. Dad, Olive, Stefanie Jenkins, Margaret. Somehow I'd ended up a rejected player.

~*~

I went to the next training session. Being in the Rejects was a bad idea and I should probably call it quit completely. then again, baseball used to be my passion. If I ditched it, maybe there was nothing I could love anymore.

I was glad to find Olive waiting by the shed. Olive was a prize nosy self-proclaimed detective. She loves to work out what's going and who is who.

"See that girl?" said Olive, pointing to a pitcher called Susan. "She's in our team too."

Susan was built like a fridge with a head, and she was not happy. She growled to herself, thumping her fist into her leather glove, making annoying punching sounds.

"Maybe someone should stop her doing that," I said.

"Do you want to ask her to stop, Darci?" asked Olive.

"Well, never mind," I said. Then something else caught Olive's attention.

"What's she doing here?" she said.

A girl was striding across the ground with a camera bag dangling over her shoulder. She had thick pale blonde hair that was nicely curled down her shoulders and a gorgeous face I recognized from school. Her name was Charlotte Grace.

"Hi there," she said as she walked towards us, but more bored than friendly.

I gave an awkward smile since I didn't know which one of us she was addressing.

"You know her?" Olive whispered.

"Not personally," I said.

Charlotte crouched on the ground sorting out the camera's gears.

"What are those for?" asked Olive, having a nosy look at her bag.

"Media studies," Charlotte grunted, shoving the mini-tripod and lens around impatiently. "I'm being forced against my will and for no possible educational value to make a documentary about an all-girl baseball team. Even though I happen to think all of sports are a boring ridiculous excuse for some attention and ego stroking."

"Hey!" I said.

Charlotte finally looked up and glanced at my baseball outfit.

"Oh, you're a ballplayer," she said as if she'd just realized. "Sorry, just got carried away by the bad mood."

She tugged a strand of blonde lock behind her ear, showing off her angular face that glittered under the sunlight.

"'s okay," I stammered. "I'm thinking of giving up anyway."

"For real?" gasped Olive. I nodded.

"No big deal. It's just a game."

"Baseball? Just a game?" blurted Olive, choking with disbelief.

"I'm looking for a girl team Under 18s. That's the First Class coach over there, yeah?" asked Charlotte, pointing to my Dad.

"Yeah," I said. I was desperate that she wouldn't think I was some loser who'd never make it into a team. But the words came out sounding a bit too desperate. "I've always played in the team. I mean, I could've this season too, but you know..."

"Sure," Charlotte said vaguely. She couldn't care less if I played in a National team or a World Champion. When she walked off towards the coach, I whacked my head back against the wall.

Fantastic. I'd managed to sound up-myself and a pathetic loser at the same time.

"You've got the hots for her," said Olive.

"What? I hardly know her!" I protested.

"I see these things," she explained. "It's like an extra sense I've got."

I scrawled at her. Then I looked back at Charlotte, who was now talking to the coach. We sat in silence for a while, watching her body language.

"I wonder how she did it," I said out of curiosity.

"Did what?"

"That donut-glaze look," I said.

"Oh Darci..." said Olive, looking at me and shaking her head gravely.